Once upon a time, in a very lonely period of my life, I felt the answer to that loneliness lay in a relationship. Inspired by Disney, I yearned for a woman with whom to share my life. Although earlier relationships had ended in heartbreak, failure and bitterness, I had not given up on the couple as an ideal model for happiness. They do say that homo sapiens sapiens’ capacity to learn sets it apart from other animals (but do they know?).

For some reason, I thought sharing life with a partner would bring happiness. That’s what friends/acquaintances did, and their relationships seemed perfect through envy-tinted spectacles. I had been alone for some time and wasn’t happy. Solitude was therefore something to flee from. Meanwhile, other models of relationship didn’t even occur to me.

Hollywood (and Bollywood) have been a cause of much unhappiness. Idealisation of beauty (the young, the slim, the muscular, the tanned), disdain of age, the good and the bad guys, the cult of image, etc. It’s easy to pretend I’m not taken in, that my principles and values are mighty and I am not morally affected by an army of good guys beating the shit out of and killing the insignificant, faceless soldiers of the bad guys. Not true. But who cares while the dosh is rolling in?

So, my intelligent, beautiful ideal woman would have both a good body and a sense of humour that was compatible with mine. To her I would be irresistibly attractive, witty, fascinating; someone to be admired and defended against verbal attack and slander (any physical assault would have to be sorted out by me, Mr Rambo). Lonely, I yearned and searched.

Then one morning my silver screen-prompted dreams were realised. As I sat at the table of a bar in a quiet square in Barcelona, I spied what I thought must be a mirage. But no, ‘twas a true goddess whose beauty knew no bounds. Her step was light and graceful and her dark, shiny hair blew in the spring breeze. She had a noble face that suggested both inner strength and delicate sensitivity, while her aura-like beauty seemed to brighten the space that acted as a backdrop to her graceful movements.

My princess walked straight up to me and asked if she could sit down at my table. She gave me no chance to switch into auto-thrash mode, to wallow in self-pity or silently and prematurely to bemoan that such a goddess would not deign even to allow me to gather up the scraps from under her table.

We began to talk. And we talked and talked. While she listened to me she kept up eye contact. She didn’t let her gaze and attention wander and seek the first excuse she could find to be away. Her carefree laugh prompted me to pour out my life to this kindred soul, whom I felt I had known for thousands of years.

The morning turned into afternoon, which turned into evening and then night. Inseparable, we woke up naked together on a lumpy single bed in a cupboard-sized room that looks onto the brick wall of the Social Security building. Social security had never been so romantic. I praised the welfare state. This goddess had been sent down from heaven with a B27/6 to mend my torn and lonely soul.

We spent the following day together, except for an interminable twelve and a half minutes when she visited her sister’s house and I waited outside. The same happened the day after and the day after that.

Unfortunately, satisfaction is rarely lasting. Addicts often testify that what they crave for eventually becomes their poison. No wonder Disney never made a "Dracula" or a "Faust". I’m not saying my princess was my poison, but neither was she a goddess. ("He’s not the Messiah, he’s a very naughty boy!"). When initial satisfaction wears off, the addictive search for sensorial pleasure and pain avoidance appears again. Just as third or fourth helpings of a tasty dish can produce nausea, so reliving the same experiences can give rise to hollow stagnation.

My former princess has now heard my stories thousands of times. When I retell them, her gaze and attention wanders and seeks the first excuse she can find to be away. I have informed her on countless occasions that I don’t like gravy on my potatoes, yet that is precisely where she pours it. She has learned to live with or ignore my obsessive quirkiness while I do the same with hers.

But most painful of all, I love her.